


Waking up (with you still in my bones)

by maharetr



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brooklyn (sort of), Dreamscapes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prompt Fic, Steve's Brooklyn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 20:45:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11791122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maharetr/pseuds/maharetr
Summary: Bucky is standing the kitchen, his work clothes clean still, his expression cracked open, and Steve discards his sketchpad and stands up almost involuntarily.“Steve,” Bucky croaks, strides across their apartment and grabs Steve in a bearhug hard enough to half knock the wind out of him.(Imagine that Steve's been trapped in a dreamscape of the 1930s and Bucky is sent in to bring him back...)





	Waking up (with you still in my bones)

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted in The Cryo Files (Imagine Bucky tumblr) [here](http://thecryofiles.tumblr.com/post/134394794092/imagine-that-steves-been-trapped-in-a-dreamscape), but this is a two-parter (Bucky's POV to come), it feels better as a stand alone, rather than complicated up in my Imagine Bucky series.
> 
> Title from Empires' song 'Bang'.

Steve’s got coffee, his sketchpad, freshly sharpened pencils, and the whole morning to experiment with how the sun changes the shadows across the fire escape. Life is good.

Behind him, he hears the front door open, and shut, and -

Bucky is standing the kitchen, his work clothes clean still, wordless, his expression cracked open, and Steve discards his sketchpad and stands up almost involuntarily.

“Steve,” Bucky croaks, and strides across their apartment and grabs Steve in a bearhug hard enough to half knock the wind out of him.

“I know,” Bucky’s whispering, almost inaudible with Steve’s good ear pressed against Bucky’s chest. Bucky’s heartbeat is thundering. “I know. Just…gimmie this, yeah?” And then Bucky’s shaking like he’s crying - he’s actually _crying_ and Steve brings up his arms as best he can to hug Bucky back.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, properly directed down at Steve’s head this time. He steps back but keeps his hands on Steve’s shoulders, and stares almost searchingly at Steve’s face. “Are you okay?”

“Am _I_ okay?” Steve shoots back. “What about _you_?” _Did someone_ die _?_  he wants to ask, but it seems like too blunt a question. He’s not sure how to handle a Bucky this fragile.

“Nah, I’m good,” Bucky says. He gives Steve one last squeeze and steps away. “Just…been a while.”

“You only left about…” Steve’s not sure when Bucky left for work, actually. “Did something happen?”

Bucky shakes his head and swipes at his nose. “Boss let us off for the afternoon.”

“Okay,” Steve says, uncertain. “Do you want…” He gestures to the stove. He can’t remember if Bucky left with lunch today, either.

“Food would be great,” Bucky says, and Steve can fry potato and onions while Bucky pulls up a chair and looks around like he’s already been away to war and is drinking in the sights of home.

“Want to come dancing with me tonight?” Bucky asks.

Steve is facing the fire escape, and the front door looms large behind him. He cannot bear to turn around and catch sight of it. He tries not to make his freeze obvious.

“Nah,” he shrugs. “You go have fun, though.”

After they eat, Bucky kicks off his boots and stretches out on Steve’s bed like he had every right to be there, tucking his arm under the pillow and resting his head on both.

“You look good like that,” Steve grins, and starts sketching almost reflexively. His assignments can go hang. 

Steve loses himself in the curves of Bucky’s muscles, the white glow of his undershirt, and the glint of his dog tags.

“Can I see?” Bucky asks, smiling wickedly. Steve glances down - he’s drawn the lines of Bucky’s dog tags chain … and the lines of wires coming from under Bucky’s shirt. There are other wires and electrodes sketched on Bucky’s forehead, and Steve _stares_ , cold sweat suddenly prickling across his skin.

He shakes his head and shoves the sketchpad away. The only thing on Bucky’s face is the start of an inquiring frown, and Steve gets up and crosses the room. He pushes lightly on Bucky’s chest, and Bucky hits the bed hard, and the bedsprings groan under Steve’s weight as he straddles Bucky’s legs.

He strokes Bucky’s face, coaxing away the frown, but also checking - definitely nothing there. He leans in and kisses Bucky, gently but insistently.

“Stay in tonight, instead,” he whispers. “Stay with me.”

Bucky groans and kisses back, and Steve feels a surge of victory - he gets to keep Bucky, even if it’s just for a little while.

“Let’s get go out for dinner somewhere,” Bucky says. “Then after that, whatever and wherever you want.”

Steve stills. “Can we even afford that?”

“Yeah.” Bucky steadily returns Steve’s gaze. “We can afford it. It’s okay.” He strokes Steve’s cheek, tenderly. “It’s good out there now, I promise.”

The front door is closed. He doesn’t look at it. He tries to drink in every detail of Bucky’s face. There’s a tremor radiating out from Steve’s chest, making him shake. 

“I’m … I’m cold,” he whispers.

“It’s all right,” Bucky says. “We’ll get you a blanket.” 

Steve shifts down to try and curl up on Bucky’s chest. “Don’t go,” Steve whispers. 

“Come with me,” Bucky counters softly. Steve shudders and shakes his head. He rolls away from Bucky, off the bed and stares blindly out the window rather than watch Bucky leave.

~*~

The world is silent, utterly silent, and icy cold. He’s dreaming, must be dreaming because he’s huge, but none of that strength can help him now.

“Steve!”

He gropes with numb fingers across the blankets, hits the freezing metal of the wall of the plane. His shield is just as cold, but he clutches that anyway, reflexively. The radio’s dead now - there’s no one to be strong for - and the plane is down but he’s not dead, and he can scream all he wants because he’s alone and he’s quite, nauseatingly certain that his left leg is smashed.  He’s alone and he can scream and curse and cry all he damn well -.

“ _Steve_.”

He wakes hard, with a great big whoop of air. Bucky is crouched by the bed, face creased with worry.

They’re in the apartment, but the plane was so _real_. Steve’s teeth are chattering. “Am I… am I still in the plane?”

“No,” Bucky says, immediately. “No, not anymore.”

“You’re dead,” Steve whispers, and his voice cracks on it.

“ _No_ ,” Bucky says. “No. I swear I’m not.” He takes Steve’s hand, presses it to his chest. “Feel that?” Bucky’s heartbeat is strong and steady under Steve’s palm. “I’m alive out there,” Bucky says. “And so are you. We’re fine.”

Steve knows – he _knows_ – the agony of watching Bucky fall, the pain in him afterwards like walking with a gut wound that nobody could fix. He clutches both Bucky’s hands and squeezes his eyes closed.

“You’re alive,” he says, like a prayer, like he can will Bucky back into existence.

“Yes,” Bucky whispers.

“We’re together,” Steve whispers.

“Yes. I’m right beside you, the whole way.” Bucky chuckles. “End of the line, and all that.”

Steve allows himself a tiny, terrified smile from behind closed eyelids.

“Come with me,” Bucky whispers, and Steve gives a tiny nod. Mostly, Steve just doesn’t want to let go of Bucky’s warm, calloused hands. He lets Bucky tug him to his feet, lets Bucky wrap him close. He’s going to miss this, he thinks absently as they shuffle across the kitchen. He’s going to miss being able to tuck himself under Bucky’s chin like this.

“Okay,” Bucky whispers. “Front door. You gotta do this bit. Sorry.” Steve squeezes his eyes even more tightly closed, reaches out from blind memory and hits the doorknob and turns it fast.

“That’s the way,” Bucky says. “I’ve got you. Just hang on.” Steve tucks his head into Bucky’s shoulder again, holding tight, and they step from the apartment into nothing, into freefall. 

This was the plunge into the Arctic, this must have been Bucky falling from the train, and it’s a terror beyond screaming.

“Incoming,” Bucky says, tight but steady. “Incoming real hot.”

There’s no impact, but Steve jack-knifes upright, a bed under him, fighting a blanket, clawing at wires on his head and chest. He hits the floor with a crash of medical equipment, his palms stinging. In the next bed, Bucky is ripping off his own wires, a metal contraption covering his arm. There are people in lab coats dashing into the room, but Bucky gets there first, scrambling across the floor and grabbing him.

“Shit,” Steve wheezes, and they’re clinging to each other, laughing and crying. “ _Shit_.”

The labcoats are hanging back, but one guy steps forward, a black guy in a leather coat and an eyepatch. 

“Such salty language from a national icon,” he says. He’s grinning, though. “Welcome to the 21st century, Captain. It’s good to have you back.”  



End file.
